


A second Chance, a second Life

by Sijglind



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: BAMF! Shadowpriest, Gen, Ressurrection, vengeance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 07:59:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sijglind/pseuds/Sijglind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>To Paul</p>
    </blockquote>





	A second Chance, a second Life

**Author's Note:**

> To Paul

Death was nothing like they had promised. There was no golden, divine light, warm like a welcoming embrace. No Heaven or Paradise, no laughter and love, nor the abyss of hell and torture for eternity.

Only white plains she wandered, until there were stars, endless and without a pattern, mist, galaxies, nebulas, planets. She was a lone soul, going nowhere, coming from nowhere, without a destination, only walking, on and on. Forever.

Some might have called it Peace, others Indifference. But what was left, when there was no body that had demands, no mind that needed tending and the love of another?

There were no memories of her life, only oily shadows, blurred and muffled, wriggling out of her grip as soon as she got too near. Fleeting like a whisper in the wind.

Time didn't exist here. Maybe she was wandering for ages, maybe only seconds had passed in the world she once had called her home. She didn't care. Nothing mattered, everything was dull. The name _Azeroth_ meant nothing to her.

And then the Val'kyr came. Her face was beautiful and terrible at the same time, shifting, twisting, old and young as the world. When she spoke, not only one voice could be heard, but thousands, roaring, whispering, merrily, dreadfully, angered, soothingly. 

' _Come_ ,' she said to the Wanderer, and her touch was cold as ice and burned like the brightest fire. ' _Your time has not yet come_.' 

Agatha's wings, black as the shadows of the deepest night, closed around her and she could feel her breath at her ear when the Val'kyr whispered.

' _Rise_.'

  


Φ

 

Her first, no, second first breath is a shudder, rattling at the cage in her chest like an animal that had been trapped for too long. 

With the new life come the memories of an old one, washing over her like a wave made of flashes. She sees a young girl, clutching a puppet and looking at burning houses in the distance; then a woman, tending the wounds of a soldier; warriors clad in red armour, a flame on their tabards; the ear-piercing screech of a banshee being over-whelmed and consumed by the light the priestess had called down upon her. And at last the sword, the pain when it parted her skin and tore her lungs, pierced her heart. She can imagine how her body must have slumped to the ground, limp and lifeless, dead eyes staring at the sky, a mute accusation. The memory of it is indistinct, veiled. She had been dead by then.

“ _This is a gift of the Banshee Queen._ ” Agatha says, and she can't hear the Val'kyr's voice, but _feel_ it echoing inside her mind. “ _Use it well. You are no one's slave, but you should honour those who have shown mercy. Do you understand, Freyja?_ ”

The name sounds strange, almost wrong. It had been given to a girl that is not there any longer and it is part of a life that had been left behind as soon as the blade had buried itself in her body. 

She nods. “I understand.”

" _Good. Now go, there are things you and I have to attend to._ ”

 

Φ

 

Her skin feels cold to the touch, and slightly slippery, like a fish that had been out of water for too long. She doesn't know the woman that is looking at her out of the mirror, and she wonders if she'll ever grow accustomed to her. Probably, with the right amount of time.

The woman she remembers had been pale like ivory, but now her skin carries a blueish tinge, left there by decay. Her hair, once black as midnight, is a shade of dirty grey and falls tangled and straggly over her shoulders. She can see the yellow bones of her elbows and knees, and her fingers and toes are more claws now than anything else. Death hasn't been kind to her, the sickening boils around her eyes add only more to that.

But then, what had her beauty given to her before? When she closes her eyes she sees him, tanned skin like weather-beaten leather, a scruffy black beard around his mouth, twisted into a ferocious sneer, a nose like a hawk's beak and eyes of inhuman blue, unforgiving and always full of longing when they seek her out in the crowd of followers.

His voice is hoarse and thick with insanity when he speaks the last words she would ever hear, back then, at the verge of another life, ' _If you do not belong to me, you will belong to_ no one.'

He should see what she has become, what he had twisted her into...

And she will show him. She will find him and suck the life out of his body like a leech. And when he falls to the ground like she had in another lifetime, when he stands at the threshold of oblivion, she will lean over him, her lips so near to his ear that they will brush his cooling skin. 'Thank you,' she will say and twist the dagger's blade deeper into his gut until the flow of ruby liquid will stop forever with the beat of his heart. It is a promise she makes.

Her eyes open slowly and she can  _taste_ vengeance on the tip of her tongue, delicious and sweet. She's never felt so alive before.

The claws of her hand click silently when they touch the cold surface of the mirror and the woman caught inside it has her lips twisted into a cruel smile. 

“He doesn't know what he has brought upon himself.”

 

Φ

 

She travels. She fights. She kills. Nothing is safe from her deadly embrace. Humanoids, demons, beasts, all fall and take their final breath.

The light that had been once in her is tainted with corruption and smells of bile, the incantations leave bitter traces in her mouth. She cloaks herself in transparent shadows that swallow the streams of the sun around her. No world is too far away for her, she fights her way through the Outlands and Northrend, death in her wake. Lady Silvanas calls her one of her most trusted and capable servants. The Forsaken look up to her and she glories in it.

But she does not find what she is searching for.

Once, she was near. Her search has brought her to the Scarlet Monastery, where the Crusade kills each other in their blind insanity. They see the Scourge in everyone, even themselves, and death finds enough victims here. But  _ he  _ has already left when she arrives and hands the rest of the corrupted souls over to the Reaper. 

When the last Crusader's limp body hits the ground and she discovers that he is not there, her frenzied scream can even be heard in Brill.

 

Φ

 

Orgrimmar is too hot for her liking, she prefers the cold and dark shadows of Tirisfal and the Silverpine Forest. But it is the centre of the Horde's might, here she can find the help she needs to keep her promise. A skilled hunter, capable of reading the trails heavy armoured boots leave behind.

Five times the sun has left her throne on the sky since she's here, and she waits patiently until someone response to her offering. It's written down on paper;

 

_ I am looking for a skilled hunter, capable of finding my prey. _

  _Good payment awaits the one who can assure my vengeance._

 

The poster is put up on the side of the auction house, clearly visible to anybody. But so far none of those who have answered to it have been satisfying. 

So she waits outside the city, attentively watching the duels taking place at the gates for anyone worthy.

It is not until the sixth day that she finally spots her.

An Orc woman, clad in armour of long forgotten times. She is swift and deadly. Every arrow finds its target and her beast's mouth is soon covered with the blood of her unlucky opponents. 

The Forsaken watches every nimble movement, witnesses the lethal dance. Hours pass before the huntress seeks rest in the wall's shadow. She only looks up when the hems of a robe and clawed feed appear in her field of vision. 

For a moment, Forsaken and Orc scrutinize each other's faces, eager to read their intentions, but they are not willing to give things away. The yellow shining orbs of the Undead are as blank as her face is impassive, the huntress allows only curiosity to show on her face.

“I have watched you fight,” the priestess finally begins.

“And now you want to challenge me?” A smug grin let's her lips part.

“I am not tired of life, yet.” The grin spreads even wider over the hidden compliment.

“What is it then what you seek, Undead?” 

“Someone ambitious and capable of finding what I am looking for. Will you accept?”

The Orc waits for further explanation, but it never comes. She doesn't know what makes her accept the offer, maybe the fierce glint she has suddenly spotted in the Undead's eyes, maybe the feeling of power that comes off the priestess in waves, or maybe it was the flattery, but she stands up and extends her hands to seal the deal, and the priestess takes it.

“Gwanget,” the Orc says.

“Kalma.”

Her skin is cold, her eyes weave tales of destruction and death. 

 

Φ

 

Gwanget has never seen something so unnatural before. But then, every Undead's existence is against every law of nature.

But then...

It had been almost too easy to find Kalma's  _ prey _ , as she called the Scarlet Crusade commander. Only killing his troops had been easier.

And now the Undead is holding him by his throat, clutching it so hard the tips of her fingers punctuate the skin and draw blood. Wavering shadows lick at her form, along her arm and wind around his neck like tendrils. Gwanget cannot look away. 

“See for yourself what your hunger has created, Cralos.” The words are a mere hiss, unforgiving and acidic, they make the Orc's hairs stand on end. Bloody bubbles form at the human's lips, pop and leave red rings behind. 

“But I have to thank you for it, honestly,” Kalma continues and pulls him closer, until they stand chest to chest, and her lips brush softly against the skin of his ear, a intimate gesture reserved for lovers, wickedly twisted. “I am greater than I could have ever been when I served under you. You meant to destroy me, but Fate has it's own ways, it appears.”

She lets go and the man slumps to the ground, weak after she has sucked nearly all of his life out of him, turned him into a drained husk. 

The dagger's blade glints in the moonlight when she brings it down and it enters his body with a sickening squelch. Blood spreads on his tunic like a rose opens its petals to the sun. Kalma leans in, her face only inches away from his.

“Thank you,” she whispers and twists the weapon.

His last breath is a husky one, disgusting and final.

 

Φ

 

The pouch is heavy with the gold within. Gwanget weights it in her hand and tries to assess the value it carries. 

“Your payment. More than promised,” Kalma explains with an acknowledging nod. “You deserve it and my thanks.”

“I have done nothing,” the huntress says, and it is the truth. Yes, she has found the men and killed a few, but the priestess has cleaved through them like an unstoppable force, killing them with the sheer strength of her mind, routing them with ear-splitting screeches not unlike a banshee's. The memory alone made her back feel as if icy water was dripping down her spine.

The Orc shakes her head to chase the feeling away. “Keep the gold,” she says and hands it back. Kalma perks a brow, but accepts it. 

“I have other payment in mind.” Gwanget grins smugly.

“And what would that be?” The look she gives her is dubious, but a smile tugs at the corners of her unwilling mouth. 

“You know, I could find a use for a priestess like you...” She extends her hand like she has done before, at the gates of Orgrimmar. Kalma takes it.

 

Her skin is cold, her eyes weave promising tales of destruction and death.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Freyja: "In Norse mythology, Freyja (Old Norse the "Lady") is a goddess associated with love, beauty, fertility[...]"
> 
> Kalma: "Kalma is Finnish goddess of death and decay. Her name means "The Stench of Corpses"." (Fitting for an Undead, isn't it?)


End file.
